Falling
by bleedingstardust
Summary: It started with Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy in a bookshop. It ended with something beautiful. Hermione meets Draco at her job at Flourish and Blotts, and their story starts to unfold. Dramione. Post DH, EWE, One-shot. High T.


**A/n: I hope you guys like this! Please follow, fav, review.**

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 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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 **Falling.**

 **...**

 **Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger**

* * *

 **Falling.**

 **...**

 **Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger**

 **…**

The smell of books is overwhelming when Draco Malfoy steps into Flourish and Blotts, the smell of pages and words that are left on the shelves for months, years, decades and still have been yet to read.

There are few people here, only a few witches and wizards with their heads bowed, one hand against the dusty shelves, one hand against the book that they were reading, and Draco closed his eyes and saw himself from a little too long ago, blonde hair and steel grey eyes, stepping in to Flourish and Blotts for the first time, inhaling the scent that had now faded to dust now.

He steps up to witch arranging books near a corner, assuming she is an employee of the bookstore, of an age long since past.

"Excuse me," he says, and the witch turns around, a mess of brown hair and a pair of black framed glasses framing her honey colored eyes.

Shit. _Granger_. Of all the places she could have worked, she had to work here.

She jumps, dropping the book she is holding, _Advanced Potions_ , he realises, when he bends down to pick it up.

"Malfoy?"

"Granger," he says calmly, handing the book to her and blowing off a layer of dust of the cover. "You work here?"

"Yes," she says, and though she still is _Granger,_ he has to admit she does look okay with those glasses. Good. "Do you want something, Malfoy?"

He smirks. "I would have assumed you would have been working with that redheaded git at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, they could need some help, considering that the shop is run by _them_."

She shakes her head and places the book in the middle of the shelf, emitting dust and pages and broken words that fly in the air.

"No." she says. "Ron...Ron and I…" she trails off, and Draco is intrigued, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"I'm searching for a book, Granger," he says. "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them."

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. "Re-reading some of our Hogwarts books, are you?"

He shrugs. "Something like that."

She leads him to a shelf near the back that is dark and nearly hidden and she bends down, hands him the book, moth bitten and worn, which he takes greatfully.

"You know," she says, turning around and meeting his eyes, her eyes gold and brown and bright. "You're not as horrid as I thought you would have been."

He doesn't expect it when he calls her back when she is about to leave, and they talk about the past, about books, about the war and about the nightmares that keep them both up, sweating and memories replaying in their minds.

He doesn't know that he'll ask her to have coffee, thus starting a friendship between himself and Hermione Granger, opposite him in every way; that they would laugh over coffee and a slice of cheesecake, that they would spend nights with glasses of red wine, watching the stars.

He doesn't know, but of course, no one ever does, because there is only books and dust and words, now, here, and he can't imagine what is about to come next.

* * *

Their friendship is different.

It isn't like it is with Ron or Harry, where while she needs them more than anything,she needs to be smart and brilliant and always ahead somehow, because she's the brains of the Golden Trio, an open book.

With Draco, it is exhilarating and exciting and somewhat calming, whether she is dueling with him, practicing (though she suspects that Draco lets her win), or she shows up at his new apartment at two a.m, tears streaming down her face, from nightmares of the past, of blood and ash and curses that filled the sky.

It's still hard to fathom, being friends with Draco Malfoy, Slytherin and blonde, the boy she had punched in third year, the boy who called her _mudblood_ in second year. He had changed. Drastically. And with him, she is not the bookworm, one third of the Golden Trio, or Harry Potter's best friend. No, with him, she is herself, _just_ Hermione Granger, the girl who is real and raw and alive.

With him, whether she's sliding down a hill with nothing to support but the crumbling handlebars of her bicycle, her lungs burning in her chest, her heart pumped with adrenaline; or sitting with him at coffee shops without speaking,she has never felt more _real,_ so vulnerable to the world as he slides down after her and shouts _Granger!_ breathlessly, laughing slightly or when he meets her eyes and orders another double shot of espresso, for her.

He is oxygen, and as the days go on, slowly, hazily, she realises without him, it's becoming hard to breathe.

* * *

He meets her again at Flourish and Blotts again with a cup of something steaming in hand.

She smiles as he hands her the cup and inhales, the scent of caffeine and cinnamon filling the air, colliding with the scent of books, of dust and words.

She whispers a silent thank you, as he sinks into the chair next to the shelf, smirking.

"How ever shall you repay me, Granger?"

She smiles, a flash of white in the dark space. "Putting up with you is payment enough, Malfoy."

"Touche, Granger."

Hermione laughs again, placing another dusty book onto the shelf, and looked over at the pile of thick books lying on the floor, waiting to be placed and arranged.

"We'll have lunch when my shift is over," she glances again at the pile of books. "Which I assume will be…"

Before she can finish, he grabs a few books from the floor and shoves them into place on the shelves, watching as dust flew up and choke them both.

"Let me fucking help you, Granger. At your pace, you won't be done for another hundred years, perhaps."

She snorts, but says nothing. They are made of moments of these, of silent communication and unspoken words, as he hands her another book and she stacks it onto the wood and she meets his eyes for the briefest fraction of time, that one second of connection before she looks away.

* * *

He shows up at her door at 2 a.m. in the morning, cheek flushed red and his eyes looking at some far away place in the distance.

" _Granger,"_ he whispers, a broken word that is somewhat slurred and hangs in the air between them both.

She pulls him inside. "You've been drinking, Draco."

"I..had to," he says, and even though he is drunk, Hermione has never heard him stumble on his words. "Kingsley told me after lunch that my mother had died."

He lurches forward, and she holds him back with one hand, setting him down on the sofa, which he sinks into.

"My mother," he spits, "is fucking dead."

She remembers Harry telling her about Narcissa Malfoy standing over him, watery grey eyes while she had pressed her fingers to his neck, searching desperately for a pulse.

 _Draco,_ she had whispered. _Is Draco in the castle?_

"Your mother loved you," Hermione says, standing up to fetch a glass of cold water, which he forces down his throat.

"Where was she then, when my father took me to the dark mark imprinted on my skin; where was she when I was home for sixth year break and I was locked in my room by my father with nothing but the darkness of my own thoughts; where was she when I was just a boy and took to my father's room once a week for _discipline_."

She strokes his hair back, and refills his glass again. "She still loved you, even if she did not stop your father. You were her son."

He looks up, into her eyes. His eyes spoke of steel, of blood and of war, yet there was something behind the cold demeanor, something that was real.

"I am lost, Granger."

"I know, Malfoy. I know."

…

He passes out when the sun starts to rise, and the sky is a hue of oranges and blues and purples, the streaked colors of morning.

He wakes up with a headache that makes the world spin, a headache that make him not be able to grasp anything obtainable. But, yet he turns and sees Granger lying next to him, brown curls stuck to her cheek, and face slightly flushed.

He basks in this moment, when he seems to be the only one awake in the world, and he watches Granger, the heaving of her chest as she inhales and exhales; the curve of her jaw, the closed eyelids.

She is the only good thing in his life, the only thing that makes him regret the past, regret carelessly thrown words; the only thing that is _real._

She wakes up suddenly and rubs her eyes and turns towards him, eyes narrowed with sleep.

"Draco?"

He realises then, that he needs her a little too much.

He needs Hermione Granger a little more than he should.

* * *

Hermione notices him at strange times.

She notices him when he stops by the bookshop when her shift has begun and brings her coffee (Butterbeer, if she is lucky), smirks at her and sinks down into a chair with a worn book.

She notices the way his hair is so falling over his forward, and the way he pushes it back in one swift motion. the way his eyes are focused on the words as he flips through the pages.

The way his eyes are the color of steel and speak of too many things that sometimes she can't help but look away.

There is a twinge that catches her every time, every time he shows up at Flourish and Blotts, every time he hands her the steaming cup that smells of caramel and nutmeg, every time he shows up at her door in the middle of the night, though she doesn't know _why_.

* * *

"Granger."

She turns around to face Draco, face the pile of books that was currently towering over the familiar flash of blonde. She grabs a book, slams it into the bookshelf, the sound resounding in the space, bouncing off the walls.

" _Yes?_ " she hisses.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

She can't help her hand from shaking as she takes the next book, can't help rage and fury from her previous encounter rush to her cheeks.

"Granger," he says. "Please. Tell me."

"No."

"Please."

"It's nothing, Draco," she feigns a smile. "Really. I'm fine."

 _(She's really not)_

She sinks into the hardness of the shelves and casts a silent _Scourgify_ at her dust filled robes, watching as they disappeared into nothingness.

He says nothing, and before long, her shift is over, and she runs, from Draco and words and the suffocating smell of books, into her apartment.

…

Draco apparates into the outside of her apartment with a loud _crack_ , walking up the patch of long since dried grass into her building, closing his eyes as he follows the familiar route up to her room.

He knows the way to Granger's a little too well.

 _What the fuck was wrong with her today?_ he thinks, as he walks in without knocking and whispers, "Granger?"

"Draco?" she comes out in a fluffy bathrobe, her hands clutching at Crookshanks almost desperately, her brown eyes narrowed at him, swollen and red and bloodshot. "What are you doing here?"

"You ran away, Granger. What _the fuck_ was I supposed to do?" he says, expecting for her to say something, though she is silent when Crookshanks slips from her arms and drops to the floor gracefully.

"I...I was distraught earlier," she says, inhaling. "I met Ron at Diagon Alley earlier."

He cocks an eyebrow at her, though he is seething. "That fucktard Weasley?"

"Yes," she breathes. "I saw him in the alley with Lavender, and he spotted me at the bookstore. He stepped up to me and said that he had saw me with _you._ He said that he didn't realise when I would drop so low to find myself with _Draco Malfoy,_ and that he...that he was glad I kicked him out, because he couldn't ever bear to live with _me_."

"That bastard," he says.

...

Draco stays long after she is done yelling, and she throws the glasses onto the floor, which broke with sickening _crack,_ long after she lies curled up next to him, murmuring and whispering.

She wakes up next to him, although he is already awake and is currently staring into the distance.

She stares at him for a moment, at the too sharp chin, at the eyes that were the color of metal, of the lines between black and white, the color of grey just before the buzzing of the morning.

She closes her eyes, savours this moment.

He is the only thing stable in her life, the only one who would hear her cry and let her just be _her,_ the only one who will stop by the bookshop and help her stack books, the only one who brings her coffee and makes her laugh.

She is falling, hard, though she hasn't realises it yet.

* * *

He has lunch with Blaise Zabini one day at a muggle cafe that smells of fresh icing and coffee.

They talk about things,about Hogwarts and the war, of their old classmates and of dungeons and Forbidden Forests, ashes and blood.

He brings up Granger accidently, and nearly watches Zabini nearly choke on his pasta as he looks up at him.

"Granger? As in, Hermione Granger?"

"Yes," he says, handing him a tissue before leaning back into his chair and taking a sip of the coffee, which slipped easily down his throat.

"Are you shagging her?"

It is his turn to choke over his shepherd's pie. "No."

Blaise cocks a questioning eyebrow at him, and Draco tells him the story, of books and words and dust, of dueling and cups of Butterbeer smuggled into Flourish and Blotts, of glasses of red wine and nightmares.

He doesn't tell Zabini of course, of running to her apartment in the middle of the night; that she was the only thing that was somewhat good and pure and real in his life, that he needed Hermione Granger far more than he should have.

"It seems," Blaise says, after Draco is done and before he finishes his bland pasta and they leave to have a drink at _The Three Broomsticks,_ and go of course to pay Granger a visit at Flourish and Blotts, "that you are becoming fond of Granger, Malfoy . Very fond."

He disapparates home, only to sink into his desk and finish some paperwork, or at least _try_ to, before she invaded his senses and Zabini's words come back to him.

 _It seems that you are becoming fond of Granger, Malfoy. Very fond._

Draco closes his eyes and contemplates other wizard's words.

* * *

Hermione sees him one day when her shift is over, sees him with a _girl_.

Blonde and curvy and tall, the girl who is currently talking to Draco is everything she is not, and something in her twists.

The blonde leans closer to him and and laughs, and Hermione pulls the book she is holding closer to her body, inhales as she watches, as her insides feel suddenly queasy.

 _No. No._

The blonde looks up and catches Draco's mouth, and he gives a grunt of surprise as he places his hands of her shoulders. Hermione can't watch anymore, and soon, she drops the book, lets the pages fly.

She runs, even if she can apparate, and as she runs, she feels her chest burn, her heart ache somehow in her chest, feel her throat retract.

 _No. No._

She finally arrives in her apartment, where it is safe and warm, where she hugs Crooks closer to her body, listening to him purr in her arms.

Her thoughts drift reflectively to _him_ , of the blonde, that slightest second of surprise.

She shouldn't feel like this, he is _Draco Malfoy,_ for fuck's sake, just a friend, and she shouldn't feel anything at all.

 _Always a friend._

But she can't help it, can't help emotions bubble up to the surface.

…

He arrives at her apartment at midnight, because he can't find her at Flourish and Blotts, at the muggle cafe, or anywhere.

He swallows and opens the door. "Granger?"

She is sitting calmly on the sofa, black framed glasses intact, dark brown eyes narrowed and focused on a book.

"Yes?" she looks up, loose curls falling out of her updo and framing her face in auburn.

"Where the fuck were you? I thought you still had a shift-"

"I saw you," she says, and her voice is sharp and as cold as ice as she looks you in the eye, her eyes blazing, red and gold and orange. "I saw you with that blonde-"

Draco inhales sharply. "She was my secretary, Granger-"

"She kissed you! And-"

"I pulled her away, is that not fucking enough for your taste? Is-"

 _"No._ I just-"

"Are you jealous, Granger?" he asks, and the question lingers in the air, and she shakes her head, stumbling slightly.

" _No...no,"_ she takes a step back to look at him, and she is suddenly mesmerizing to him, her hair a mess of coffee colored curls, her eyes widened. "I don't know. I thought...but never mind, since you obviously…"

He takes a step closer, until she can feel the warmness of his against her skin.

"Are you _fucking_ blind, Granger? Brightest witch of her year my arse-"

"How dare you-"

"My point is, that have you never noticed?" he says, his voice barely a whisper, trying to conceal the emotions that were rising.

"Notice what?"

"THAT I AM FUCKING IN LOVE WITH YOU!" he says, his words echoing in Granger's apartment, bouncing off the walls.

"I.."

For once, Hermione Granger is at a loss for words.

She opens her mouth again to say something, but instead, he steps towards her again, and they collide.

His lips are on hers, and she opens her mouth ever so slightly,his tongue-wet and hot and moist- slipping in between the spaces, lapping in circles around her mouth, tasting butterbeer and coffee and that small hint of cinnamon and vanilla. She lets out a moan, which lingers in his mouth, sweet and soft and so _fucking_ hot.

He is as addicting as cigarettes and alcohol, and she savours him, savours his taste, that masculine taste that whispered _Draco Draco Draco_ , and she can't pull away, even if the image of the blonde keeps popping up in her head.

He strokes her neck, touches his lips to her jaw, and she feels a shiver go through her, of a thousand needles resting on her skin at once, a jolt.

She opens her mouth again, and their mouths meet. The room is spinning, spinning, spinning, as his tongue darts back and forth and she replies with fierce intensity. There is not enough oxygen in the room, not enough for them both, and Hermione has to remind herself to breathe, to inhale.

 _This_ is what makes her feel real, feel real and raw and alive, as his tongue sweeps across hers again, and she tastes him, that scent that lingers on his clothes, bittersweet and musky.

She understands what it feels like to fall now, to feel like falling from a hundred feet, feel the gravity rising,feel the rush of adrenaline that comes with it.

He wants to stop time at this moment, let time stop at this moment when they collided, and he feels real, the blood in his veins pulsing and hot and red, feels that rush as she pulls away and meets his eyes, hers wide with surprise-and was that possible?- satisfaction.

There are no words needed, somehow, only connection and friction and desperation, and somehow he is okay with that.

…

It is the end of the beginning. the beginning of the journey that was currently unfolding in front of them.

Though, no matter, because as she snuggled into him on the couch, she knows.

There is only what is happening _now,_ and what is to come next.

And they were prepared.

...


End file.
